


Cats with Black Curls

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Sherlock is a cat convince me otherwise, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, can be platonic or romantic you decide, they're sweet boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23821606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Sherlock is basically a cat. John's got proof.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 8
Kudos: 324





	Cats with Black Curls

**Author's Note:**

> wow has it been a month already damn

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: “I would’ve had breakfast ready, but you were sleeping on my arm and I didn’t want to wake you.”

* * *

John has a running list in his head of all the things that make Sherlock secretly a cat.

  1. He seeks out the people he knows do not/will not like him and makes a thing out of getting them to admire him. 



Really, Anderson’s all the proof John needs for this one. The man’s transformation from the biggest thorn in Sherlock’s side to one of the greatest believers is astounding. John’s noticed that every time there’s a new set of policemen accompany Lestrade to a case there’s a split second where Sherlock catalogs the new ones and absolutely starts showing off. See DI Dimmock as another example.

“I am useful,” Sherlock sniffs when he asks Sherlock about this, “and it’s the quickest way to ensure they recognize it.”

John knows that there’s some more behind that but he’ll let it slide. Plus, it’s not like it’s not entertaining.

  1. He runs around like a maniac in the middle of the night for no reason. 



Something jerks John awake. He lies completely still. Don’t give away your position. Wait for another sound.

Something breaks.

He’s moving before he registers his body responding. His limbs pump. He instinctively grabs something from the corn of his room. Presses himself against the wall as he goes down the stairs. Peeks around the corner. No light from downstairs, Mrs. Hudson isn’t awake. Mobile in his pocket.

“John?”

“Sherlock?”

“Stop holding the pillow like it’s going to be useful to you and get down here.”

Pillow? He’s not holding a—

Oh.

Sheepishly, John returns his deadly weapon to his bed and trots down the stairs, adrenaline quickly wearing off, making him stumble a few times on the way. His jaw cracks with a yawn as he rounds the corner.

“…Sherlock, what have you done to our kitchen?”

The man looks up, befuddled at the question as microscopes, beakers, and far too many open containers of body parts litter the table and counters. The mad scientist himself perches on the chair, shards of glass at his feet.

“Experiment,” Sherlock says offhandedly, “now where are you hiding the milk?”

John blinks. “Milk?”

“Yes, John, the milk. I can’t have a cup of tea without milk and I can’t watch the rest of this combustion without a cup of tea,” Sherlock explains like of _course_ this is the solution why doesn’t John see it?”

“We’re out of milk, Sherlock,” John mutters, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Ridiculous. I asked you to pick some up this morning.”

“What time this morning?”

“When the baker came ‘round.”

“I was at work!”

“Well, it’s not my fault you didn’t hear me.”

“Why didn’t you just go?”

“I had things to do.”

“When I came back you were in the same position on the couch you were in when I left!”

“ _Things,_ John.”

John sighs, rubbing his eyes. He’s not awake enough for this.

“We don’t have milk, Sherlock. Even if I were to go, none of the stores are open.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock flounces out of the seat, resolutely ignoring all of the shattered pieces on the floor, grabbing his coat. “There’s a 24/7 mart 2.3 miles from here. They’ll have milk.”

And…he’s gone.

John rolls his eyes and fetches a dustpan. Wouldn’t do to have either of them stumbling onto glass first thing tomorrow morning. Making sure none of the experiments are likely to kill them both before Sherlock gets back, he returns to bed.

The man lies about all day and then runs around all night.

Cat.

  1. He doesn’t trust easily. 



John knows he isn’t the most observant of blokes, but even he’ll notice the tall figure swooping around and ducking out of sight on his way to work and back. He catches one more glimpse of dark fabric swirling out of the way and loiters by the street pole until everyone else is a suitable distance away.

“You can come out now,” he calls, “I know you’re there.”

At least Sherlock has the decency to slink a little bit when he walks toward him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Experiment.”

“Really?” John folds his arms. “What for?”

“Analysis of the least conspicuous passer-by in relation to the speed at which an individual walks and—“

“Sherlock,” John interrupts, “you could’ve chosen anybody to follow. Why me?”

Sherlock hesitates.

“You wanted to know if I was actually going to work,” John guesses, “and not to the station to tell them what we found.”

There’s an ongoing case about three missing statues from a wealthy collector. Sherlock has managed to locate one of them but insisted on keeping it from the police. Said it had something to do with a security network, whatever the meant. They’d had a row about it last night.

“I’m not going to tattle on you,” John sighs, stepping a little closer to prevent any _other_ passer-by from hearing this, “I promise.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

“Why don’t you follow me and see?”

John turns his back and walks the rest of the way to the hospital, not turning around to see if Sherlock’s still following him. He catches a few glimpses of someone who _might_ be Sherlock on his way home. By the time he gets to the flat, the case has already been solved.

  1. He is remarkably self-sufficient but relies on you for important things he _will_ not let you forget. 



Sherlock doesn’t seem to remember that his body is useful for more than just taking his head places. At the very least he doesn’t act like it.

The man will go seemingly days without sleep and run at several kilometers per hour for all of them. Reminding him to eat is a constant battle, successfully sitting him down and actually _getting_ him to eat is another matter entirely.

John’s learned small things he can do. If he puts plates of easy-to-eat food at Sherlock’s elbow when he’s in the midst of an experiment or an impressive stream of deductions he’ll eat them without thinking about it too much. If he’s in the middle of one of the long stretches of silence on the couch, if John drapes a sheet over him, he’ll go to sleep and wake up without losing his train of thought. And of course, if John hasn’t been doing so good with reminding _himself_ to eat and sleep, Sherlock will pick up on it and they’ll do it together.

John’s still shivering. The ambulance arrived less than an hour ago and the blanket over his shoulders is almost soaked through.

Sherlock stands a few feet away, going over the final details with Lestrade. The suspect is taken into custody, Donovan’s car peeling off down the road, sirens blaring, over the river. The cold river. He’s still surprised the suspect managed to throw him in. The breeze cuts through the layers of fabric easily.

_Bollocks,_ it’s cold.

Sherlock swoops in front of him, eyes darting over his figure. Within an instant, he’s whipping off the great black coat and using it to replace the sodden blanket. The warmth of it settles around John and he finally relaxes.

“Come on,” he hears Sherlock mutter distantly, “home.”

He follows the gentle tugs to a cab and up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock murmurs for him o go take a warm shower, change out of the damp clothes. He obeys, running on the same instincts that kept him moving across the deserts, keeping him alive until the rest of his brain returns. The warm water shocks his system enough to wake him from the dazed state, not enough to rouse him completely.

He emerges to a kitchen piled high with their favorite takeout. Blimey, he was in there for a while, wasn’t he?

Sherlock eats with him which should be the first sign something’s wrong. He normally has to talk Sherlock into eating, doesn’t he? But there he is, sitting across from John, eating the food almost as ravenously as John is. Wow, is this better than usual?

Too soon it’s gone. John wriggles in the seat to get more comfortable. Sherlock clears away the takeaway containers—doesn’t he normally have to fight him to do that too?—and returns to John’s side, taking his elbow gently.

“Come on,” comes the soothing murmur, “let’s get you some sleep.”

“You have to sleep too,” John manages even though his eyes feel like lead.

“Then come on.”

John only barely registers the fact that they’re not going up the stairs but down the hall, to Sherlock’s room, before he hits the soft mattress and knows no more.

He wakes up slowly, a gradual ascension from unconsciousness, rising slowly from the depths, knowing when he breaks the surface he won’t feel groggy in the slightest.

There’s a thin shaft of light drifting in from the curtains. It’s late morning. He tries to roll out of bed but—hang on, isn’t the door supposed to be over there?

Oh, right. He’s in Sherlock’s bed. Wait, where’s—

Black curls tickle the side of his head as he turns. Sherlock’s curled up, all gangly limbs tucked into a tiny fraction of space, half on top of John. His body heat radiates through the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth wrapping around them both. John stops trying to move, taking advantage of the little time he has to see this man still, barely a ripple on the surface of a vast ocean.

It’s quiet.

Somewhere far away a dog barks.

He’s not sure how long they lay there, unmoving, but it’s long enough that his arm begins to buzz lightly, pins and needles settling in. He tries to adjust it when Sherlock stirs.

He blinks open, staring up at John.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Hello.” John wiggles his arm. “I would’ve had breakfast ready, but you were sleeping on my arm and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That’s alright,” Sherlock whispers back, their faces close together, “I’m alright. How are you feeling?”

“Well, ‘m not cold anymore.”

“Good.” Sherlock smiles. “That was quite a nasty swim.”

“Tasted horrible.”

It startles a chuckle out of Sherlock. “I’ll make sure to pass on your review.”

“Ta.”

Sherlock yawns, stretching lazily. “I don’t want to move.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Good.” And just like that, he’s ensnared again, Sherlock’s limbs wrapping tightly around him, curls buried in his shoulder. “Stay. Be my pillow.”

“Doesn’t look like I’ve got much of a choice, hmm?”

“No.”

Well, you know the rule. If a cat falls asleep on top of you, you’re not allowed to move until it wakes up. Smiling to himself, John settles back in for a lazy morning, adding one more similarity to his list.

  1. Winning his trust feels like the highest honor. 



**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine.
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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